Deola Banjoko tied the soft blue towel around herself and padded quietly back into the bedroom. She stood looking at her boyfriend, admiring his profile as he slept, oblivious to her intense scrutiny. When they had first started dating she used to do that a lot, pinching herself that this handsome guy was in love with her. She would replay how they met at her friend Kike’s 30th birthday. She hadn’t dated for ages and her friends were always trying to set her up with guys who seemed to be wrong for her – until one day they said they had the perfect answer.
“You will adore this guy. He is handsome, he is a lawyer and a real gentleman. Very oyibo, just like you.”
And so she was introduced to Kunle Williams. At six foot he had to bend down to listen to what she had to say, he was attentive, had a great sense of humour and seemed to be genuinely interested in her work as a public relations manager for a TV station.
Things moved on fast and they spent a lot of time together. Kunle was everything she thought she had ever wanted in a man and she was quite happy. Her family in Nigeria had been told and her mother rang him to say how happy she was that her daughter had found herself a good man.
However, now five years had passed, and Deola was getting restless about the relationship. She needed commitment. He still needed to be sure.
The previous night they had both got home late from work. She had been working hard on a promotion for a client and he’d had a long and stressful day, so they were not in the best of moods. Deola had a presentation to prepare for, so she was back on her laptop as soon as she got home. Kunle had walked around restlessly as she worked.
“Where is my food?”
She had no answer for him. Her head hurt. Her eyes were red from staring at the computer all day and all she had wanted was to have a long hot bath and curl up in bed.
“I’ve just come in. I was working late myself and I still need to finish this presentation. There is stew in the fridge. You can make yourself some rice if you want to.”
“Surely you could have put on some rice to cook since you came home.”
“I’m not your servant, last time I checked.”
“True. You are not my wife either, and that is all down to you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He sighed and flicked on the TV.
“Come on. Let’s have it. You started it, you might as well continue.”
“My mum says—”
“Why does your mum always have to have a say in our lives? Can’t we just get on with it without her input?”
“You have to see it from her point of view, Deola. My mother went through a lot to raise us alone after Dad died, and I swore that I would make it up to her. I’ve always dreamed that my wife and my mum would be close.”
“I am always the one putting in the effort. I call her, I visit, I take gifts. I make conversation and it’s like she just isn’t interested. Sometimes I get the distinct feeling that she doesn’t like me. Your sisters are the same.”
“Don’t you think my mother’s concerns have some foundation? Come on and face facts girl! Five years and no pregnancy? There has to be some problem somewhere. I’ve suggested tests and you just couldn’t be bothered. How do you expect her to feel? She wants grandchildren!”
“You know what? You and your family are not serious. I thought you loved me for me and it wasn’t just about being some child-making machine. You know these things take time.”
“Five years we’ve been together. I will be 40 in a couple of years’ time. How long do you expect me to wait?”
“OK, if you want to go there – what makes you think that the problem is me?”
Kunle had laughed then, and it had filled her with a sense of foreboding. “I can assure you that I have no problems in that area.”
“And how do you know that? Any children lurking anywhere that you want to tell me about?”
He turned away from her and walked towards the staircase. “Don’t be silly. You know I have no children hidden anywhere. I’ve done tests. I know I’m fine. You need to sort yourself out.”
“No! You and your family need to take a chill pill!”
“They are my family and I don’t intend giving them up to please anybody!”
Deola had stood there with her mouth open as he disappeared upstairs.
It had been a frosty night, neither of them talking to the other, sleeping back to back. Sleep was impossible as bits and pieces of earlier discussions chased themselves through her mind.
“Maybe if you got pregnant?” he would suggest. “Then my family will give their blessing to our marriage.”
“For goodness’ sake, not that again,” she would retort.
Then he would come over, hold her in his arms and start nibbling at her neck, and she would her forget about how weak he was when it came to his mother and sisters. They would make love, and when it was all over she would lie awake staring at the ceiling wondering whether this time she was going to produce a child. A glittering wedding with a tiara and her own kingdom – complete with a handsome prince – awaited her as her reward for delivering the chosen seed, with Mama the queen consort still ruling and reigning in the background.
The lack of this child – the proverbial spectre at the dining table – was the impediment to him putting a ring on it. Kunle was never going do that unless she got pregnant first, but maybe after five years of waiting for him to come to his senses, she just wasn’t prepared to wait any more.
Having towelled off and dressed, Deola touched up her make-up and appraised the result.
At five foot six she was average height. She wore her natural hair in curly kinky shoulder-length twists, but it was usually pulled back into a bun or a weave. Working in public relations meant she had to look the part. One day she was talking to foreign clients, another day schmoozing with the top guns.
She was a practical person and her hair and outfits reflected that. They were classic and functional – skirts and trouser suits for the clients during the week and more Afrocentric and rootsy during the weekends. Her favourite designer was a Ghanaian fashion student that lived not far from her, in Hackney, east London, and made Deola funky dresses and trousers in Ankara prints. She loved chunky African jewellery too, and picked up most of her collection in flea markets.
Her look today was simple yet elegant: a white silk blouse and a navy tailored skirt with a flounce at the trim that flattered her curves. She had an hourglass figure and often wore darker tops to camouflage the fact. For someone who worked in PR, she hated drawing attention to herself – an anomaly if ever there was one.
She had been working on a presentation for some clients from the Middle East for the past few weeks and she was meeting with them later that day. The account was important to the agency and she knew that everything had to go smoothly.
Deola sensed Kunle coming down the stairs and felt his eyes at the back of her head. She could almost hear the unspoken words going through his mind – more conditions, more clauses. It was as if he was in court, going through his papers looking for some kind of legal loop-hole.
Suddenly, she turned to face him. “Kunle. I’ve been doing some thinking … ”
He was heading for the door, picking up his keys. “Not now, hun. I’ve got a lot on this morning. Got this big case and I’m trying to keep my mind on that. Can we talk when you get back?”
Deola stared at him as he left the room, not really seeing the man she had loved for five years. Five years of loving, giving and hoping that he would make their relationship formal.
Five years during which she couldn’t get pregnant.
It had taken all those years for her to get to know Kunle, and one second of revelation to realise who he really was.
Deola picked up her stuff and headed for work, lost in her own thoughts. Her mind was still reeling from the events of the past couple of days – because what Kunle didn’t know was that the day before, she had gone to see a consultant …
The specialist’s voice had been even and crisp, and he had spoken in an unemotional polite English tone. Why did these middle class types always manage to sound like Hugh Grant?
“Are you absolutely sure?” Deola’s voice had sounded disembodied, like it belonged to someone else. Someone strong and optimistic, not the broken creature hiding away under her shell.
“I’m really sorry, Miss Banjoko. We carried out various tests and X-rays and there is a problem with your uterus. The slight abnormality to its shape can make it extremely difficult, if not impossible, to become pregnant.”
“Is there nothing I can do?”
“Well. You could keep trying and take a chance, but any chances of becoming pregnant or remaining pregnant would be slim. I’m so sorry. Miss Banjoko … er … are you OK?”
She dabbed at her eyes. Tried to pull herself together. “Of course.”
“I do understand this might come as a big blow to you and your partner.”
She nodded.
“If you would like me to set up a meeting with yourself and your partner, we can have another chat to go over your options and see if I can refer you to someone who can discuss things with you.”
“What are my options?”
“You are in your late thirties and your fertility decreases with age, and there is also the shape of your womb. Adoption might be realistic for you and your partner?”
She had pushed back her chair and picked up her bag. “I don’t think that discussion will be necessary.”
The doctor stood up as well. “But I’m sure that we can see how we can help. Hopefully you and your partner might … ”
Deola shook her head briskly. “Thanks. I had better go now.”
The doctor ran a hand over his bald head. “I’m so sorry it wasn’t the news you wanted to hear but—”
Deola walked out.
What felt like moments later, she was sat on a cold hard bench as a steady stream of humanity burst out of a train: dark-suited businessmen and women with their laptops, faces grim with fatigue; school children chattering away; and tourists. So many tourists – you could always spot them from a mile away – walking leisurely with their backpacks and guidebooks, unlike the swift purposeful strides of the indigenous London worker. Deola felt it was the smiles that marked tourists out, really. No one smiled on the Tube. It was more fashionable to frown as you stared into a spot just above the heads of your fellow commuters …
That was when she had seen the little girl. She wore a navy blue blazer over a gingham print dress and had her hair in plaits. Her mother wore a frustrated expression and a red coat as she dragged her along.
I don’t want to go to school seemed to be written all over the girl’s face. Deola’s eyes had connected with the little girl’s, and a small smile passed between them.
A few seconds later Deola heard the little girl’s loud voice. “Mummy … why was that lady crying?”
“Ssssh. What did I tell you about making up stories! I haven’t got time for this. I’m late for work as it is!”
Deola had watched them until they disappeared into the station, along with the other passengers from the train. A faint shiver threaded its way through her and she’d realised that she had been sitting at the far end of the station, exposed to the elements, for the past hour.
Now, ready for work, Deola slowly picked up her phone and looked at the picture saved on the screen. She wore long braids, T-shirt and jeans. Next to her was her fiancé of five years – Kunle Williams, dark and debonair. The perfect cliché.
Who wants to be a fiancée for five years? He said he was going to marry her. He just wasn’t ready to put his words into actions.
He might never be ready.
She typed out a quick text, pressed the send button, gave a big sigh and stood up. If she was quick enough, she still had time to get to work for the presentation to her clients.